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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946557">Part 3: Justin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36'>oiuytrewq36</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Will Survive [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queer as Folk (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:34:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian only ever gets weird about the whole “I love you” thing once. I’m actually very proud of him for that, not that I’d ever tell him. It happens early on, during the first time he comes to see me in New York. I’m telling you this now so you’re not startled when he flips out a little (in, of course, the totally silent and self-contained way that only Brian can flip out) after the unimaginably good sex that immediately follows this paragraph.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Will Survive [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Part 3: Justin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>sex time! eyyo :P</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian only ever gets weird about the whole “I love you” thing once. I’m actually very proud of him for that, not that I’d ever tell him. It happens early on, during the first time he comes to see me in New York. I’m telling you this now so you’re not startled when he flips out a little (in, of course, the totally silent and self-contained way that only Brian can flip out) after the unimaginably good sex that immediately follows this paragraph.</p><p>By the time we get through the door of the five-star suite Brian booked downtown - he says it’s so we don’t have to worry about pissing Frances off, but I know he’s really just a slut for luxury - I’m so hard I can barely see straight (ha). Given that we’ve been subsisting on phone sex for a month, it seems prudent to skip the small talk and just do what we do best, so the moment we make it inside, we rip each other’s clothes off and get down to business. We fuck greedily, gluttonously, gorging ourselves on orgasm after life-affirming orgasm until we pass out, and then we wake up and do it all over again. </p><p>Brian’s sliding two fingers back inside me when I realize absently that I don’t know what day it is. I mention this thought out loud to him and take more than a little enjoyment in watching him try to drag his mind out of my ass. </p><p>“Do you … care … what day it is?” he says, speaking slowly, like he’s forgotten most of the words he needs for the question and has to flip through a little mental Rolodex to find them.</p><p>“Fuck no,” I say, and bear down on his fingers. He whimpers - <em>God</em> -  and starts rubbing slow, perfect circles inside me. We’re both more than a little stoned on sex and Brian’s expensive weed, and everything is warm and soft and glorious, tangled up in white Egyptian cotton sheets and comforters and pillows with obscene thread counts that I’m sure Brian researched ahead of time because he’s a prissy little bitch when it comes to details like that. </p><p>He buries his face in my neck, and I moan. I mean to say something sexy, something to get him to make the little choked sound that I love, but instead I find myself whispering “I missed you" softly against his temple. I’m mostly expecting a gently mocking comeback for that, but he pulls up so that he’s looking right at me, our faces nearly touching, and he murmurs “Fuck, I love you,” open and honest and beautiful, and I can’t help it, I gasp and arch up into him. He laughs, his real laugh, and I want to melt into a puddle on the sheets and lie here under him forever.</p><p>“You like that?” he purrs, dropping his head back down next to my ear, and I can’t do anything but sob in ecstasy as he adds a third finger and then jams them all against my prostate. “Justin,” he moans. “<em>Justin</em>. I fucking love you. I <em>love</em> you. I am- I am madly, desperately ... helplessly in love with you.” His voice is losing the husky pitch, getting a little higher, more frantic, and that’s when I know this isn’t a game, that he wasn’t expecting to say these words any more than I was expecting to hear them. “I can’t stop loving you,” he says, and oh, there’s that smoky choked-off groan that I needed to hear. “I won’t,” and that’s what pushes me over the edge, into an orgasm that makes me curl up towards him and gasp so hard it sounds like a shriek.</p><p>I flop back onto the bed and push both hands through my own hair, feeling a little bit like I’m going insane, and based on his expression he’s not doing much better. He pulls his fingers out and I <em>squeak</em>, and the way he looks at me is nearly enough to start getting me hard again. Before I can even begin to consider forming a coherent thought, he flips me over, buries his face in my ass, and proceeds to rim me within an inch of my life.</p><p>I think I’m screaming, nonsense syllables and garbled words and probably his name, but at this point I don’t care, I don’t <em>care</em>, I need this to end and I need it to never stop. I shove my ass back into him and he laughs low and dark and feral, tightening his hands on my hips as he tongue-fucks me even deeper. I clutch both sides of the pillow that I’ve shoved my face into and push it harder against my mouth as hysterical howling sobs rip their way out of me. Brian is <em>growling<em> behind me, and when he pulls back to nibble at the edge of my asshole I lose it, shattering under him as he severs the last threads of my sanity, coming so hard I black out.</em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I wake up on a clean patch of the sheets, Brian cradling me to his chest. It only takes me a few seconds to realize that he has the look on his face that means he’s busy creating a fun little purgatory for himself, and there’s no way I’m about to let that go on. He opens his mouth and I say, “Shut up.” He closes it again. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“That was …” I twist around to look at him properly and moan when it makes something ache sweetly inside me. “That was unbelievable. I know that you hate losing control, but I also know how you feel about me, you asshole, and it doesn’t matter if you say it out loud or not, during sex or not, when we’re alone or not, because I am never going to think you’re weak or desperate or any of the other things you associate with people who show emotion in bed. I need you to believe that, because I’m going to want this again, okay?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He smiles, just a little, and strokes my hair for a minute before he answers. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I’ll do my best. You know I don’t make promises if I don’t know I can keep them.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I lean into his touch, feeling the corners of my mouth twitching up. Just because we’ve finally learned how to talk to each other doesn’t mean that everything’s going to be perfect, I know, but this is so much more than enough for now.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>***</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>We eventually drag ourselves away from the bed long enough to pay a visit to the nearest corner deli. It turns out to be Saturday, so we eat our sandwiches on a bench in Central Park and play Spot the Queers. Then Brian tugs me away so we can - surprise! - go shopping on Fifth Avenue, where, as well as finding new additions for his ever-expanding collection of identical black shirts, he insists on buying me a ludicrously expensive (and beautiful) blue cashmere sweater. The argument over the sweater goes something like this:</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Him: I’m buying you this.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Me: I told you I don’t want gifts.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Him: It’s not a gift for you, it’s a gift for me. Do you have any idea how hot you’d look in this?</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Me: Yes, and I already have lots of clothes I look hot in.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Him: If I blow you in the dressing room, will you let me buy you the goddamn sweater?</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>The moral of the story is probably to never argue with an adman, but I think I got a pretty good deal in the end.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>It’s early evening when we get back to the hotel room. The linens have been changed, and I make a mental note to leave an extra-large tip for the housekeeping staff. Brian plows me face-first into the mattress before I can even get my jeans all the way off, then goes to fill the in-room hot tub while I’m still panting, my hands clenched in the newly clean comforter.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“You’re a prick, you know that?” I tell him when I can speak again, stripping as I walk towards him. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He slips behind me and kisses the top of my spine before pushing me in the direction of the hot tub. “I thought that was why you couldn’t resist me.” I decide not to dignify that with a response, mostly because it’s true. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He steps into the tub and holds out a hand to help me in. I lift myself over the edge and settle into the hot water, sitting between his legs, my back against his chest while he runs his hands through my hair and kisses my neck. It’s heaven.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Then Brian says, “You know, this is perilously close to cuddling,” and I kind of want to stab him with one of the obnoxious filigreed faucets.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He snickers when I tense in his arms. “Too soon?” </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I have to laugh. “Fuck you.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Maybe later.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I’m tempted to demand he bend over right here - the tub’s a weird and probably uncomfortable shape, but he’s fucked me inside the Corvette, so I wouldn’t feel too bad about it - but his bringing up Cuddlegate has reminded me of something I need to tell him. I lift myself off his lap and turn around so that I’m straddling his waist. The prod of his dick along my crack is nearly enough to make me forget what I’m supposed to be doing, but I poke a finger into his chest and tell him to behave in my serious voice, and he listens.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“There’s something we need to do,” I say.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Something like … sex?” he says, looking hopeful.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I smack him on the shoulder. “We need to sell the house.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“We need to- what?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“The manor. Britin. Whatever. We should sell it.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He’s looking at me with this mixture of confusion and fear, and I knew this would be how he’d react because he’s afraid I’ll outgrow him and he doesn’t think he deserves to be loved and all the other classic Kinney shit, etc. etc., but I have to say this. I have to make sure he knows it.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I love that you bought us a house in the country. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, practically speaking, but it means a lot to me that you would make a gesture like that.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He puts one hand up to my cheek. “But …”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I sigh. “But we’re city people, Brian. You like designer clothing and pretentious health food and anonymous sex, and I like the underground art scene and clubbing and taking the subway, and there’s none of any of that in Whereverthefuck, West Virginia.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Cassville,” he says softly.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Okay. There’s none of any of that in Cassville, West Virginia. I want to spend the rest of my life with you - don’t look at me like that, you dickhead - but I want to do it somewhere loud and bright and exciting, and I want to live with the Brian Kinney I fell in love with, not some bizarre obedient cuddling machine.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>That makes him laugh, and I feel a little more at ease. “Just for that, you’re getting spanked tonight, Taylor,” he says, leaning forward to nip at my mouth.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I grind down against him, make my eyes all big and round, and breathe, “Promise?”, right into his ear, and he growls a little and bites my neck before I remember that we really shouldn’t be getting distracted right now.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I haul my brain back to the less-pleasant land of Important Relationship Discussions. “So?” I ask.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Brian draws a big dramatic breath, but his eyes are serious. “Much as it pains me to surrender the remains of my promising career as a housewife… You’re right. It needs to go.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He looks sad, though, so I poke him again. “Talk to me.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He shrugs. “What’s there to talk about? It’s the right decision.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I curl one hand around his neck and pull him forward until our foreheads touch. “No regrets?” </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I can’t really see his face, but I know he’s smiling. “No regrets. Now, why don’t we go see some of that city nightlife you’re so crazy about?”</em>
  </em>
</p>
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